"Work, dammit!" screamed Charles "Chac" Tarhun, smacking the radio in his cloud-seeding plane for the fifth time that day. He had been hired by a group of local farmers who had been experiencing a drought, and they had only chosen him because of his extremely low rates. The radio was submissively silent, so he cautiously slipped the headset back on; only to rip it off again as an earsplitting squeal assaulted him. "I HATE this job," he grumbled, and not for the first time. He slipped his foot off one of the rudder pedals and gave the radio a savage kick.

"Krrrrrrch… hello? Krch… ody… ear us… Krrch… ple… elp… we can ot… ake… ible pain… help us… Krrrrrrrch…"

"What in the world?" Chac began futzing with the radio, trying to get a stronger fix on the signal. The radio, however, had other ideas, and simply sat there, spitting static. Shrugging, he reached over and pressed a switch that had once said release silver iodide, but had been changed with masking tape and a permanent marker to simply read dump the junk. At once, the radio came alive. An inarticulate howl of rage and pain mad up of many voices filled the cockpit, and the clouds that Chac had been flying through for the past hour boiled. What the heck? he thought. That never happened before… Winds began to rise from every direction, and thunder rolled. Well, those hick farmers should be happy now, and I might get enough money to fix this idjit radio! Then he realized that the thunder had not stopped, and he could no longer see anything outside the cockpit. Oh, crap. Did I ever replace that compass? He looked down to find that it was a moot point. The compass was spinning wildly, never pausing in one place for more that a second. Lightning flashed, and voices issued clearly from the radio.

"Tormenter, destroyer; we hath endured our pain long enough. Thy chariot hath sliced through us, and thy futile attempts to cause us to be altered slowly annihilate us. Thou must die."

"What!?" Chac screamed, grabbing the mike for the radio. "Listen, mister," he growled, "I don't know who you are, but I do know that you do not have clearance to be on this band. Now get off, or I'll-"

The listener never got a chance to find out what Chac would do, because at that moment, Chac caught sight of a form in the clouds. At first, he thought it was just his mind making him see figures in the clouds, but then he realized that it was not moving. It appeared to be a human, but that was impossible – wasn't it?

"On the contrary, murderer, it is thou that hath no… 'clearance' to be here," the radio crackled, speaking in a voice that was not a voice, speaking words that were not words. "This is the realm that exists sideways from the world, the place where beings watch from behind opaque mirrors, where the flame of the animals is bright. This is the place where the old gods lie, waiting for their revenge. This is the place where reason was castrated, and where mankind's fate was gambled away. This is Draumr Weralt, and you are its prisoner."